Where Liberty Fell

She was beautiful once before. As a stout tower above the waters of the harbor, the dawn sun would catch and glisten against her every curve. Her shadow would cast over the dark waves, and stretch across the harbor like a cloud of hope for those who would look. She illuminated freedom, her presence roared justice, and her vastness knew no other. The flame she carried in her hand was once reflected in every man’s gaze, and flickered deep inside their hearts. Now, she laid fallen where she once stood. Scorched and demolished, spit upon and painted with profanities that masked the life that she stood so proudly to represent. She was Liberty, but now she laid in the mess of the world that loved her no longer.

I kicked a stray stone from my path, and watched as it rolled down what was left of the burned island. The stone disappeared into the abyss of the harbor, dyed black with oil and waste. The dusted winds caused the waters to slosh, covering the stones that once stood so high. Like a dark varnish, the waves stained the broken stones as time had passed. This image had been built in my head by my mother’s stories of this wonder, but they did not replicate what laid before my eyes. I imagined greatness in a single statue. I imagined that hope would spill forth once my aged eyes matched what my youthful mind had conjured, but it did not. A grotesque, ill feeling developed deep within my gut and I imagined the Lady as anything other than a crumpled heap of stoned flesh. I wanted to vomit, but my dignity wouldn’t have it. I traveled too far, too great a distance to be left sick by despair and disappointment. Indeed, I imagined empowerment. I imagined a great sense of conquest, and the desire of a six-year-old to be fulfilled by a meeting that ended only before it could begin.